


indulge

by pensee, vivisextion (pensee)



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Brief cigarette burns, Caught with your pants down, Dragon!Hannibal, Fisting, Gangbang, Hannibal is a pervert spread the word, Historically inaccurate blowjobs, Human mate Will, Kind of sweet actually, Kinktober 2019, LITERALLY, Late 1960s AU, Lingerie, Lingerie model Will, M/M, Male Lactation, Marathon Sex, Married dragon/human banter, Mentions of the Vietnam draft, Mischa Lecter Lives, Multi, Photographer Hannibal, Pregnant Will, Romance novel clichés, Semi-Public Sex, Teasing, Using skin as an ashtray, all that good stuff, and tries to play matchmaker, biting kink, egg birthing, egg pregnancy, historical inaccuracies probably, i guess, intersex omega, pirate!Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2020-11-09 11:31:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20852735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/pseuds/pensee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/pseuds/vivisextion
Summary: Various prompts to myself for Kinktober 2019.1: Gangbang2: Lingerie model Will3: Vintage AU with semi-public oral sex4: Dragon!Hannibal and his mate5: Pregnant omega Will and Pirate cannibal Hannibal





	1. seeing more than double

**Author's Note:**

> I’m just making up kink prompts to myself as I go and clearing out some old ideas.

“He’s still fucking drooling,” an amused voice says, peripherally, and Will whines, tries to squirm eagerly towards the insistent prodding down below, someone very pointedly not wearing protective gloves of any sort despite trying to get their fist inside him and punch it out the other side. “He’s dangerously dehydrated.”

“So treat him, then,” another voice barks. The man might be stifling a smoker’s cough, too, while he says it, and Will really would be paying more attention if he wasn’t being pulled apart at the seams. The smoker has red eyes, too, the same unsettling rust as Hannibal, who is studying him calmly, Hippocratic oath and vows of friendship be damned as he watches with an interested gaze Will being touched and lovingly tortured and penetrated from every direction. 

Twins, triplets, five of them total, this isn’t a hallucination, Will thinks, mind not coherent enough to keep processing the fact that he’s actually been surrounded by and still being fucked by a handful of men that vaguely resemble his therapist, going on four fucking hours now.

They’re an oddball group—Baldy with an ugly tattoo stretching across his skull, a man in a black suit, with his tie undone. Sweating, but more dignified than the man in tennis shorts and a stretched out polo shirt, his cock in his hand like Will’s just here as something pretty for him to jerk his enormous dick to. Grab a few tissues, toss some onto Will, wipe off, repeat.

_“Please,_” he gasps, whimpering HannibalHannibalpleaseIneedmoreIneedlessjustfuckmetillmybrainsaremush, all in a single breath, and the hand that’s been playing around his guts pops out of him with a wet sound and a rush of frothy, sticky lube, Will’s insides struggling to pulse close even as they gape around nothing.

Baldy runs his tongue over his teeth, gnawing at a fingernail as he watches Will pant, his soft, wrung dry cock hanging limply between the cradle of his legs. He looks at Will like a snake tracking a shiny new thing that’s wandered into his burrow, and darts forward before Will can blink, his hands on Will’s shoulders, pushing him back, back, back.

Then, the cherry of a freshly lit cigarette hovering in front of his face, someone commenting on how slick his ass was, that it tasted like cherries, the lube cheap and barely worth it, Will burning inside as someone pushed three fingers to replace the fist, then a tongue, which he tried to twist away from, over sensitive, but Hannibal’s palm was forcing his head and the rest of him back towards it, the tennis player who smelled of barn animals and excessive deodorant clumsily kissing Will’s slack mouth, Will’s weakly curled hand around black suit’s foreskin, the illusion of his perfectly put together appearance shattered as he guided Will’s hand over his dick.

Will’s knees are touching his shoulders now, neck straining, ass up and exposed, too many hands and mouths tearing and sucking and pinching and biting at him, the one with long hair and a neck tattoo snuffing his cigarette on Will’s bared thigh, Will screaming for God, for Hannibal, for someone to make it stop to make it last forever, too full and inevitably splitting and needing every inch of it more than air.

Tennis player’s cock feels like it’s going straight through his guts, the too eager thrusts breaking his back, baldy muttering in another language, watching his fingers slide in and out of Will, then the tip of his cock, tennis player arguing in that same language, a loud voice, Will nearly laughing through his silent tears because even though he understands nothing, he feels the waves of discomfort rolling off tennis player at touching another man besides Will, laying there like an inescapable, debauched invitation.

Black suit has simpler demands, opens Will’s mouth with a coaxing press at his mandible, fucking Will’s drooling tongue like a fleshlight, Will humming, eyes rolled ecstatically back into his skull as he practically slobbers over his cock, which the other man seems to get off on, dick pulsing and twitching despite the fact that he takes forever to come.

Something salty wet bursts near Will’s eye, the sound of skin on skin, cigarette smoke drawn into his own nose by quick shallow breaths, semen coating his eyelashes, again and again in endless spurts, neck tattoo grinning at him, having a good time, baby?

The little pinup girl winking, falling back to its inanimate state as he blinks uselessly, knowing who will be the last to have him and trembling as the others climax and let his boneless body fall back to the bed, and all he has to wait for is the friend he’s fled to in times of confusion and fear, in the middle of the night when he can’t think of anywhere else to go.

The cocks inside him pull out, spent, and he drips their spunk onto the bed, onto the carpet, as he’s pinned against the wall. Maybe it’s neck tattoo, the man smells like smoke behind him, gnawing on the nape of his neck, but he knows who it is, the feeling of Hannibal’s teeth on his skin as familiar as breathing, and he sighs gratefully at their welcome, claiming sting.

“Relax, Will,” the voice says, and Will is deflated, sagging out whatever humanness he has left, reduced to weak limbs and a safe embrace and the biggest, stupidest smile he can manage.

“Okay,” he whispers, lips quirking against his own shoulder, and spreads his legs for one last go.


	2. motion capture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still-a-psychiatrist Hannibal moonlights as a freelance photographer for high-fashion brands, courtesy of his media mogul ex-patient Margot Verger. Since Hannibal spends some of his free time photographing beautiful things, why can’t one of those beautiful things be Will Graham?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lingerie and anal fingering, what else could you want out of life? Will calling Hannibal a pervert? Okay, I have that for you, too.

It had started as an avant-garde way to sell a failing lingerie line that the company—a luxury brand with an inexplicably dwindling clientele—had poured too much money and time into to fail to receive a return on their investment. Since most of the battle was marketing, they hired more photographers, models of all shapes and sizes, paid for ad space in whatever online and digital publications the young and wealthy and stupid took in like gospel. Lastly, their foremost PR manager had made a suggestion that a desperate CEO could not for the life of her turn down: Put the boys in our lingerie, too. 

And the rest, as they say, was history.

Hannibal believes wholly in reciprocity. He gives what he has been given, and in this case, he considers to himself, tongue running hungrily over his aching teeth, Margot has given him so much.   
The terrible tease of a boy—an undereducated and overintelligent Southern beauty barely over twenty—reclines against the high backed set chair as if it is a throne and Hannibal is a supplicant desperate to kiss his ring. He giggles when Hannibal raises his camera and gestures to the tripod behind them instead.  
“God, don’t get ahead of yourself, Doctor Lecter,” he simpers, his pretty pinkish toes curling as he stretches needlessly, parting his thighs and balancing them on the chair arms in a lewd parody of a squat.   
It is not lost on either of them that the boy is in nothing save a translucent, peach-colored bralette that cups his dark nipples indecently, the panties clinging to his hips made of triple the amount of fabric as usual, so not to create any improprieties that the ad company may be sued for, though Hannibal imagines, with all his being, that he can make out the exact texture of the boy’s cock and balls through the material, imagines running his tongue along the soft, vulnerable skin.   
“Put the camera away, come here for a second instead.”  
Hannibal swallows.  
“This studio isn’t ours indefinitely, Will,” he scolds, privately wincing at how gravel rough his voice sounds. “There is another shoot booked within the hour, and you haven’t posed successfully for a single shot yet.”  
“Whose fault is that,” Will smiles cuttingly, arching a thick brow, subtly darkened with pencil, the blush on his cheeks not entirely artificial as Hannibal stalks towards him, right hand clenched to a fist, the other stubbornly clinging to his camera despite the boy’s plea to put it down.  
“You’re testing my patience and my resolve. One of them will crumble before the other, sweet boy. Would you like to find out which one?”   
Not for the first time, Hannibal bemoans the powerful breadth of Margot’s influence, despite her only securing these freelancing jobs out of gratitude. He’d helped her quietly dispose of her brother and to secure her father’s media empire—out of pure amusement, of course—but a few dozen hours of therapy and an offhand comment about how wonderful his artistic eye was, and Margot had offered him access to indulge in his rather base interest of spending inordinate lengths of hours appreciating beauty for beauty’s sake.   
Beauty indeed, but not the demure sort found in poetry and song. More like that of a Venus flytrap in the instants before it snaps shut and consumes, Hannibal muses to himself, as Will reaches for him, deceptively innocent, and hooks a slender finger onto a belt loop nearest his crotch and pulls him closer.   
“You think I don’t know that you take pictures of me when I’m changing back into my clothes?” Will asks, running his exceedingly pink tongue over his bottom lip. “Privacy isn’t exactly the gold standard in this industry, but why do you think I let you?”   
Hannibal inhales sharply. There were mirrors in the barely-concealed corner that models often used for quick wardrobe changes or to store their personal belongings, but Will had never given any indication he was being watched, clumsily stumbling back into his jeans and ratty sneakers, teasing his hair until it fell back into its usual disarray without even a subtle flinch in his expression to let Hannibal know he knew.   
Feeling a burgeoning erection in his trousers, Hannibal debates on the best course of action as Will’s hand moves from his belt loop to the growing interest a bit lower.   
“I think you let me because you wanted to see what would happen,” he says, because he has done these awful things for the very same reason.   
“We’re just alike in that way,” Will hums, looking up at him through his lashes, incredibly aware of himself and his allure, and most likely incredibly aware that Hannibal would crawl across the floor to get him to stroke now where his hand is only barely touching.   
“Will—,” he growls, but Will is quicker, leaning back against his chair and suddenly far away, much too far to touch.   
“Okay, I guess I’m ready now,” Will sighs, idly playing with a shoulder length curl. “Take your pictures, pervert.”   
Hannibal doesn’t know whether he objects more to being ordered around or being called that disgusting word, but he grits his teeth and raises his camera, nearly choking at the image he’s greeted to in the viewfinder as he moves a half-step back for a better angle.   
Will has still thrown himself back onto the chair, legs propped up, though this time, his left hand is cupping himself through the fabric of his panties, the right massaging lazy circles through the clearly defined wet spot—Hannibal nearly falls to his knees right there—as Will just barely dips his fingers, through the panties, into his hole.   
“If you behaved and took whatever pictures they need without a fuss, I thought I was gonna let you fuck me today,” Will says conversationally, “but that’s still up to you, Hannibal.”   
Hands trembling, eye still ridiculously fixed through the eyepiece despite the fact that if he could tear himself away the reality of the situation would appear to him, complete and so much more vividly, Hannibal’s index finger presses down with frustrated precision, the shutter clicking a half dozen times in the next few seconds.   
Capturing Will’s open mouthed, heavy lidded smiles and pouts and gasps as he touches himself—does the things that I should be doing to him instead, Hannibal’s hindbrain provides unhelpfully—eyes rolling back as he teases at his rim, biting down on his lower lip as if the pleasure is much more internal, the fingers pressing on his sensitive walls or pleasure-swollen prostate instead.   
“How long have you wanted to touch yourself for me,” Hannibal demands, on one knee now, shamelessly photographing Will’s smooth inner thighs, the bulge of his hard and now leaking cock peeking over the waistband of the panties.   
“S-since, f-fuck,” Will pants, chest flushed the sweetest color, dewy traces of sweat gathering at his temples, between his thighs, at the bent crooks of his knees.   
Hannibal would lick him clean if he wasn’t waiting for an answer from that deviously gorgeous mouth.   
“How long,” he hisses, digging short nails into Will’s flushed thigh, balancing the heavy camera with his other hand, snapping a shot of that, too.   
“How long do you think,” Will gasps, laughing deep in his belly when Hannibal’s lips pull into a snarl. “The moment I walked in with my ‘yessirs’ and ‘gee, ma’ams’, and you seeing through me just like I saw through you.”   
This is an answer, the correct answer, exactly what Hannibal wants to hear or all of the above, and Hannibal cannot contain himself any longer, letting his camera fall beneath one of Will’s knees, where it bounces against the cushion before stilling. Surging forward, he gets his teeth into Will’s inner thigh, biting down so hard he tastes blood the first time he latches on.  
Will makes a high, breathless noise, but does not jerk away to injure himself or anger Hannibal further, merely resuming his motions against his hole as Hannibal detaches from him like a far-from-sated leech and chooses another spot on the opposite thigh to mark and maim.   
“Oh my God, oh fuck, Doc—,” Will whimpers, hand working his shaft, halfway below the waistband of his panties, and Hannibal manages to squeeze his hand into what little space between them exists and smacks his flank, hard.   
“Mmmm,” Will hums, louder as Hannibal says, low, “You’ll come when I get inside of you and not a moment before.”   
Sweating profusely now, wrecked as much as he can be without actually having orgasmed, Will puts a curious finger to Hannibal’s crimson-stained teeth and whispers, “You think they’ll like me all bloody like this?”  
I prefer you this way, Hannibal thinks, but says, “You’re going to stay like this, and we’re going to finish the shoot.”  
At Will’s sound of protest, he adds, “And I will edit or exclude the images or the parts of images our superiors would rather not see.”   
“You’re going to photograph me like this,” Will says, tone dripping both amusement and dark, sensual disbelief.   
“Of course,” Hannibal says, retrieving his camera from beneath Will’s legs, hardly any worse for wear. And if these subsequent photos were going to be part of his private collection, he’s sure his sweet boy would hardly mind. Once he was sated on Hannibal’s seed, Hannibal was sure Will would learn to see the humor in the situation.


	3. strings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I just want you to be happy, son,” Mother says, that perpetual coo in her voice. “I want you to find a good wife, and raise good babies. You’ve already completed your residency—one of the youngest in the nation!—so you don’t have to worry about job security while you’re homemaking together.”  
He can hear the matchmaker's hearts in her eyes over the phone, but cannot, at least privately, bring himself to subscribe to her delusions any longer. 
> 
> Why, after all, would Hannibal want a "good wife" when he could have Will Graham instead?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a late 1960s AU. Please forgive any historical inaccuracies, etc. I just love the music in particular of this era, and semi-public blowjobs-in-a-car seemed like Kinktober material so *shrugs*.

Mother calls him at five o’clock on the dot to ensure that he remembers—despite the fact that Saturday nights are always Family Dinner Night—to come over in exactly one hour, and to bring the good wine with him. She inquires politely after Bedelia, whom he has not been seeing for the past three months, but whom his mother hopes he will reunite with soon enough to give him the grandchildren she so desires before she expires of whatever notion her hypochondria has conjured up this week.

“Bedelia is fine, Mother,” he lies, eye twitching the slightest bit, because the last time they had seen one another, she had thrown her sharp stilettos at him and cried, rather dramatically, that she would never want to see him again.

“I just want you to be happy, son,” Mother says, that perpetual coo in her voice. “I want you to find a good wife, and raise good babies. You’ve already completed your residency—one of the youngest in the nation!—so you don’t have to worry about job security while you’re homemaking together.”

He can hear the matchmaker's hearts in her eyes over the phone, but cannot, at least privately, bring himself to subscribe to her delusions any longer. He had tried running away once before, and it had gotten him nowhere.

Remembering Will’s father poking the barrel of a shotgun through the open window of the Cutlass as Will’s moans—of pain, Will’s father had mistakenly thought—echoed across the lonely field where they had been parked, he thinks that he is far too entrenched in whatever he has with Will Graham to ever consider anything different.

“Don’t worry about me, Mother,” he smiles to himself, rueful. “I have it all under control.”

“They think—I mean, the news is saying. I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Will sighs into his hands, curled up on the seat next to Hannibal as if he’s unsure of whether to continue holding himself or reach out elsewhere for comfort.

“You could enroll in university before they make the draft announcement,” Hannibal says, putting an arm around Will’s shoulders, still much slighter than his own despite the fact that, for all intents and purposes, Will has been a legal adult for more than a year.

“That’ll put me lower on the priority list, but I’ll still be—God, Hannibal, you and I both know they’d choose someone like me in a heartbeat over someone like you. I don’t have money to go to school, anyway, and _don’t_ you dare think of offering to pay my way.” His index finger, poking hard at Hannibal’s chest now. “I’ll cut off your balls before I let _you _pay my way in this world.”

Hannibal scoffs. “Then I suppose I will have to join you over there. Become a battlefield surgeon. Follow you—,” he starts, but Will puts a hand over his mouth.

“Shut up. Don’t joke about it,” he hisses, still visibly distraught but schooling himself, moment by moment. “I wasn’t kidding about chopping your balls off, but I think your Ma’ll probably beat me to it. You’re already an hour late for Saturday dinner. I’ll bet she’s calling all the police in town lookin’ for ya.”

Tipping his head back against Hannibal’s arm, posture uncoiling from its previously tense state, Will’s expression morphs into one of carnal interest, legitimately interested as everything is, between them, though Hannibal knows he’s merely trying to distract himself from the truth he will eventually have to contemplate, one way or another.

_Is that not what you are doing right here, right now, with a pretty boy in the passenger’s seat of your car, avoiding the family that so wishes you were something that you are not_? he asks himself, but the thought is lost a moment later, Will’s lips on his own, Will’s hands impatiently undoing his belt and the top button of his trousers.

“This was, mmm, this was a real good idea, daddy-o,” Will pants, breaking away to get a better look at Hannibal’s cock through the gloomy, pinkish neon cast of the nearby parking lot lights, as if he could not unzip Hannibal’s fly and have him out of his boxers in a few instants by feel and muscle memory alone. “Parking behind Marianne’s; wouldn’t have guessed you had it in you.”

Hannibal silently raises a brow, but refrains from commenting. They both know that Will’s father has figured out most of the places they like to park, and that even this is a risk, being barely-concealed behind the diner where anyone walking past can see (perhaps even those police officers that Hannibal really does believe his mother would send after him for being late). Still, the rewards far outweigh any potential damages.

After all, he is exceedingly careful, and can think on his toes. Surely, he could devise a reasonable explanation as to why he would be parked behind Marianne’s at such a time, with a swollen-lipped boy hovering over his crotch.

“A dingy alley behind Marianne’s has a certain ambience that the abandoned farm on Peach Tree Road lacks,” he hisses, as Will strokes his shaft, blowing a teasing breath over the slick already beading at his tip, chasing some along the seam of his foreskin with a wickedly pointed tongue.

“I dunno, I can barely see what ‘m doin’, hun, maybe you can help me out,” Will hums conversationally, a flicker of flat, white teeth all the warning Hannibal has before he’s swallowed about halfway, Will’s hot throat opening around him, his cock pressing against the smoothness of Will’s palette.

Cursing to himself, Hannibal drives his hips up once, twice, thighs shaking a bit because there’s barely any gag to Will taking him further, barely any resistance to him tangling his right hand in the thick curls at the base of Will’s skull and yanking him back before experimentally lowering Will’s mouth back onto his cock.

Will’s eyes are shining, the words _help me out_ echoing through Hannibal’s skull, and Will is rubbing at his balls through his clothing, Hannibal making a garbled noise though Will is the one with his mouth full, Will the one twisted oddly in his seat so that he can lean down into Hannibal’s lap.

There is barely any rhythm to it; hardly ever is, despite how many times Will has already done this for him, how many times they have exchanged this role. Hand straying down to the sweaty nape of Will’s neck, he clamps his hand down and croaks, “You don’t need to see, darling. Just feel.”

Rising to brush his bangs from his eyes, Will smirks, “Well, don’t ever say you never had the opportunity to fuck my face,” and Hannibal nearly reconsiders, those terribly filthy words enough motivation to bring the action into being, but he won’t be one of those inelegant morons who use and throw away without appreciating one bit the thing they are defiling.

(When he defiles Will entirely, he will do it properly and thoroughly, and neither of them will be able to leave his bed for _hours_ after.)

“Y-you’ve bee—been so free with yourself, d-darling. I would never ac-cuse you of that,” Hannibal stutters, no doubt Will thinking of the Talk that Will’s father had with both of them on that particular matter.

He can _feel_ Will roll his eyes though they are downcast, now, Will teasingly kissing his tip, hair falling over his face once more and tickling Hannibal’s erection in some entirely random and entirely frustrating pattern, Will continuing to lap at him like an ice cream cone instead of taking him back into his mouth.

Lips flattening, Hannibal bucks his hips forward and pops past Will’s semi-gaping lips with a wet slurp, and Will smiles, careful of his teeth, as he sinks Hannibal down inside of him once more. Exhaling loudly through his nose, Hannibal grasps Will by the nape and murmurs, “You’re terribly bossy, my dear.”

Giving a noncommittal grunt, Will begins to hum around him, and Hannibal lazily begins to fuck in half-thrusts, snorting once he realizes that Will is actually trying to carry a familiar tune—Marianne’s jukebox is blaring “Earth Angel” loud enough to be heard a block away, and Will is attempting to sing along.

It would be comical, if not for the relentless vibration is making Hannibal leak even more, straight down the back of Will’s throat.

A sudden, sharp sound at the window startles them both, Will scrambling back to his own seat as what seems like a horde of drunken teenagers file past Hannibal’s car, whispering and pointing and making faces against the glass. Hannibal’s erection is still standing proudly out from his fly, though his heart rate slows in the tell-tale way that means bloodshed ahead, watching the pack of them retreat in the darkness, one wearing a varsity jacket with a boldfaced name on it holding the small girl next to him close.

“Hey, they’re not worth it,” Will says, tugging on his wrist to bring his attention back, though he’s threatening to break out into laughter, hand over his wet mouth, eyes shining in the low light. “Seriously, if you go around beating people up that deserve to get beat up, you’d get arrested for more than public indecency, and then where would I be?”

His mother’s words fly to his head, unbidden, and Hannibal crushes the blush that instinctively rises to his cheeks.

_You need to find a nice wife to check that temper of yours, dear_.

“In need of another beau, I’m sure,” Hannibal says dryly, though he lets out a small gasp as Will’s hand finds its way to his still-interested cock.

“Don’t say that,” Will sighs, eyes clearly fixed on Hannibal’s dick rather than his face. “I could never replace you, honey. You’re far too special for that.”

“I don’t believe you had to drive three counties over for this! Oh, sweetheart, I’m not mad,” his mother says, and Hannibal has no idea where he inherited his knack for dishonesty or his sense of smell from, because neither of his simple, sweet parents flinch when he says, with a straight face, that he drove to Hampton Gardens an hour away to bring back his mother’s favorite wine, equally glad that neither of them could smell the coagulated bits of semen in his shorts that Will’s tongue had failed to lap up while they were still parked behind Marianne’s.

“It was no trouble, Mother,” he says, hugging her with one arm and depositing the wine (which he’d plucked from his own pantry hours ago, before his rendezvous with Will) into his father’s hands, hanging up his coat in the foyer, brow furrowing as he hears other voices echo from the sitting room nearest the foyer.

“Oh, gee, honey, I meant to tell you, but your father said—,” she says, earnest and perhaps the slightest bit devious after all. “Well, anyway, we ran into Mrs. Du Maurier at the supermarket, and lo and behold, Bedelia had plans to meet with her tonight, but we all arranged things so that they would have dinner here with us instead! Isn’t that a wonderful coincidence, son?”

“She’s really a lovely girl, son,” his father says, hand on his shoulder though he’s not quite tall enough to reach without standing the slightest bit on tip-toe, Hannibal notes with what small satisfaction he can glean from the matter. “You should give her another chance.”

Hannibal wants to frown wryly, but he’s in polite company, so he keeps his expression flat. Already missing Will’s refreshing lack of ceremony and brutal honesty, he muses about what exactly he will tell Bedelia as they round the corner.

He knew certain unsavory things about her past, but it was not everyday that he let himself literally get caught with his pants down, Will Graham’s hand working him to hardness as the woman who agreed to let him try again found them together whilst in the process of returning his house key all those months ago.

There is no polite, catch-all phrase for something like that, he chuckles to himself, and tries not to grin like a shark as he sees Mrs. Du Maurier rise to enthusiastically greet him, Bedelia’s steely gaze and subtle blush enough, for now, to assure him he still has the upper hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This song is the anthem of this story: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=liKhLNY5GYI


	4. a dragon's hoard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surely, the host of brave knights, determined princes, and boastful kings that ascended their craggy mountain home and gave their lives in the hope of killing his dragon mate (their unfortunate skulls now adorning Will’s rarely-used vanity, gleaming ivory and gold in the light of the torches) would have cringed at how easily Hannibal—monstrous fangs and fire-breathing snout, terrible claws, thick body, and razor-sharp tail—capitulated to his human mate’s distressed hissing, a calming rumble issuing from his soft underbelly as he gently ran the tip of his foremost talon along Will’s cramping abdomen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ carefully and READ THE TAGS. Will is an intersex omega with a birth canal, and no genitalia is explicitly mentioned save his birth canal because this is an egg-birth drabble. 
> 
> Backstory here is that dragon males are basically just there to fertilize things (although Hannibal is much more involved than traditional dragons would be), and Will is a human omega that somehow got pregnant. I don’t know what any of this is. Dragons traditionally lay eggs here, but let’s also just say that embryonic development in dragons works differently (and a lot quicker) than RL oviparous things.

“N-no, nononono, fuck,” Will pants, attempting to twist away from the overwhelming sensation, but he can’t get away, not really, not when the thing he’s trying to flee from is coming from inside of him. Dripping sweat, hair hanging in a soggy mop over his face, his thighs tremble with exhaustion as he attempts to force the last egg out, lower lips stretched too wide around the ribbed shell’s corona, muscles tensing with overuse. “As soon as this thing is out, I am never having triplets again, _do you fucking hear me_.”

Surely, the host of brave knights, determined princes, and boastful kings that ascended their craggy mountain home and gave their lives in the hope of killing his dragon mate (their unfortunate skulls now adorning Will’s rarely-used vanity, gleaming ivory and gold in the light of the torches) would have cringed at how easily Hannibal—monstrous fangs and fire-breathing snout, terrible claws, thick body, and razor-sharp tail—capitulated to his human mate’s distressed hissing, a calming rumble issuing from his soft underbelly as he gently ran the tip of his foremost talon along Will’s cramping abdomen.

“You will still have to care for the eggs when the last one is birthed,” Hannibal says apologetically, those already rolled beneath Will, lying coated in a thin sheen of mucus, begin to tremble as the young dragons within start to stir at the unusual lack of surrounding heat. Hannibal estimates it will be another fortnight before they are mature enough to hatch entirely, but he would be loath to tell Will so at this very moment.

“And you’ll just lie there being useless as always,” Will snorts, though he is smiling, and not particularly as meanly as he could be, given the circumstances. “God, why aren’t dragonesses the ones who run things for your kind? It would be—shit—it would be a l-lot more practical if dragons were the ones to incu—incubate eggs all day wh-while _we _went out and did the important—_fuck_!—the important things.”

Purring, Hannibal picks Will up entirely, his hips fitting easily between the span of Hannibal’s claws, and strokes a leathery finger along the width of Will’s womb with his opposite hand, hoping that the movement will relax his mate enough to give the one last push needed.

Will shivers, and falls silent with a whimper, a pained expression flickering over his features before he takes a few more deep breaths and goes limp, perched on Hannibal’s belly as it rises and falls. The vast cave that they call home is quiet, save the sharp huffs of Will’s breaths, Hannibal’s low, answering growls comforting as possible, though he nearly jumps out of his skin at the sensation of the last egg _wiggling_ half out of him, the little dragon rousing inside its protective shell.

“They didn’t ever think it was a good idea to try to kick when they were still inside,” Will laughs hysterically, though the tears spilling from his eyes are also something like joy. Wincing as his muscles contract again, he whimpers gratefully as Hannibal very, very carefully uses the softest parts of his fingers to hold Will open as the contractions continue and Will takes another deep breath to push.

The egg plops wetly into Hannibal’s waiting palm, and Will wonders, not for the first time, how he ever fit that gigantic thing into his body, much less the two more of them that he has already birthed.

Flopping forward onto the furs gathered beneath them, Will weakly scrambles for his other eggs, glad when Hannibal places the third in his arms as Will settles over them to keep them close and warm.

“After I sleep for a month, you are going to help me bathe these eggs, and I’m going to sleep for another while you lay on top of them till they hatch,” Will groans faintly, and Hannibal thinks better of it than to mention, once again, that their children will hatch much sooner than that.

“I will care for all four of you,” Hannibal promises, and lays beside his mate and their eggs, curling his body protectively about them, cocooning them in furs and warmth, Will smiling tiredly as he feels the steamy heat from Hannibal’s snout.

“Not so useless after all,” he murmurs, touching the briefest kiss to the scales along the seam of Hannibal’s mouth, and Hannibal snorts, in both exasperation and approval, as Will falls asleep not a handful of moments later.

Well, Hannibal considers, curling closer around his little family and closing his own dark eyes. It is a wise idea. Soon, they are going to need all the sleep they can get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Working on this instead of writing “fool’s gold” with actual dragon/dragon stuff? Psh, why would you say that? Heh. T_T


	5. king tides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disgraced nobleman Will has a turn of bad luck when Matthew Brown gets him pregnant before they're even engaged. Duchess Lecter takes pity on him, though Will would have appreciated knowing her plan to have her older brother--also one of the most fearsome pirate captains at sea--kidnap him well beforehand. Mischa may have intended to play matchmaker between the two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so rough, but I hope you enjoy. I ADORE pirate!Hannibal, and need all of him that I can get. A/B/O is also my favorite.

Will’s last memory is thick with despair—of returning to Cambridge, of returning to _Matthew_, the lout—and mingled excitement that the Duchess’s claims would soon come true, that a mystery party (for the right price, of course) might safely and completely spirit him away from his parents’ insistence he wed the rake who had taken advantage of him and left him in such a _state_.

His memories do not quite align with the tumbling of water beneath the breadth of the surely enormous ship he is on, to have quarters of this size at his strange captor’s disposal, much less elucidate who his strange captor is.

Daylight has long since fled, and the candles mark the wine-stained discoloration of the Alpha’s teeth which tell him all he needs to know. Not yellowed with age or neglect, but thick with a sheen of blood from one of the never-ending pool of victims which so readily sail the high seas in search of fortune, discovery, and the glory that plagued many an explorer who sought the fabled peaks of Darrien.

_O Holy God_, he thinks, panic setting in too late. _I’m trapped here, naked, with Hannibal the Cannibal_.

And he is unfortunately and entirely nude before this monster, he realizes, clutching at the furs surrounding him as his only shield, a telltale fullness at his chest the most likely explanation behind the current dampness on his skin, besides the fact that this rogue had taken liberties during his sleep. Both options are equally distressing, though he is thankful that the unexpected wetness that slides to pool beneath him is too thin to be seed.

There was little hope for pregnant men onboard a ship (the Duchess had promised land travel only, with access to physicians under assumed names), less so for men in the company of those who consumed their brothers with an appetite to rival those seen in the last days of Caligula.

“Your tits were leaking, and there was not a single man on this ship who’d seen such a lovely creature in many moons. Chiyoh thought it best that you not ruin any more clothes or be seen in public in such a state, hence the furs,” the pirate tells him, smiling in a manner he must perceive as friendly, when it really just makes Will’s skin crawl, in fear and something too close to unearned submission for an unfamiliar Alpha for Will to examine at the moment.

“Where is the Duchess?” he asks, trembling at what would have happened to a woman such as herself on a vessel like this, had their entire party been kidnapped as he feared, beset by the cannibal’s men. “_What have you done with her_?”

“Nothing,” the pirate chuckles, as if the suggestion were absurd. “I have done things at her request, surely, but I would never harm her. In fact, due to my own charity, her husband will soon lose all of his East India holdings, fall destitute, and forfeit his legal right to stall her request for divorce.”

Will winces at the sensation of bloodstained fingers at his pulse, but feels his heartbeat slow, to his surprise, as the pirate washes his hands in a basin nearby. Everything from his many heavy rings down to his nails are near pristine as he returns to the bed to palpate Will’s chest. Nothing untoward, though his gleaming red eyes might suggest differently, and Will belatedly realizes that this fondling is merely a clinical examination for his health.

“I was a medical practitioner, in another life,” the rogue says, voice rough as if he has not spoken to another in months. “You have no need to fear assault, little one.”

Bristling at the tone, Will nonetheless has to admit its truth. This strange manifestation of what many considered a ghost story—the devil that sailed the seven seas—was towering over him, pungent bulk of his body scented with salt and metal and the spice of others’ fear, though whatever malice he has is saved for the rest of the world while Will floats here, in this odd, treasured bubble of space, where this man stores his golden knick-knacks and spoils of war.

There are crystal fishing floaters on the desk, jewelry from the Far East, and books with spines that are so frail Will would hate to touch them lest they crumble to dust.

“Your ankle was twisted in the skirmish, but I can detect no other malady. Six months?”

“Five,” Will blushes, when the pirate brushes dry lips over his exposed knee in what he is sure will be explained away as accidental, drawing back to himself and covering his bottom with the furs after an appreciative glance glides over him, head to foot. “What skirmish? Did you not just admit to being on the Duchess’s payroll?”

“Hardly,” the pirate smiles, of deceivingly good nature despite the rumors that swirl around him like ink in water. “She is my sister and any service I do her, I give freely. My crew’s skirmish was not with her. Your father had sent a party of his own, which did not want to see you carried off by a troupe of the most wanted pirates on the Continent.”

Will snorted.

“My father did not want to see me carried off before I could prevent the ruination of his good name.”

“My sister did not bend the truth. You are unwed, after all,” the pirate says, the look in his red eyes far less benevolent than it had been a moment ago.

Will covered his heaving chest best he could, remembering himself. Not that his bosoms were the size of even any postpubescent maiden’s, but it was the principle of revealing himself in such a situation! This man might not have intended for impure actions to be undertaken right at this instant, but he did have plans—Will could see—plain as day.

“What were you planning on doing with me if I wasn’t? Drop me overboard or just drop me off at the next major port—_oh_!”

The pirate did not take to his bristly attempts at wit, pinning his wrists easily and letting the furs fall to the side, exposing Will to his interested gaze.

“A terribly rude assumption, Mr. Graham,” he rumbles, and Will gulps audibly, feeling himself flush at the hardness pressed between his unceremoniously spread legs. It is tellingly thick against him, and yet the pirate doesn’t seem entirely affected by his body’s rather base reaction to an omega helpless in his bed, rising to disappear into the corridor with a parting smirk not a moment too soon.

Will lays back against the blankets, chest heaving, wondering what in the nine hells he’d agreed to when the Duchess had asked him if he’d been feeling well when they happened to meet on his last train ride out of Town.

_Certainly not_! he thinks now, though these circumstances were quite a bit different than those he’d once thought were the bane of his existence back in London.

He considers his unusual savior, a pirate that served the butchered remains of what used to be men in the most creative ways, perhaps under the guise of some folk cure to avoid scurvy, and scoffs.

But try as he might, he could not deny how hard and fast his heart beat when the man had so gently and so terribly kissed his proffered knee.

_Oh, blast it all, Graham! You’ve really done it this time_, he thought, miserably curling into the nonjudgmental warmth of the bed’s plentiful, welcoming furs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May add to this as I go, but marking this as complete for now. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love. Follow me on Twitter @penseeart to talk Hannigram AUs and smut prompts.


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